In The Dressing Room, Little Thespian
by Ellie Carter
Summary: High school AU. Castiel is performing in a school drama production, Dean goes along to watch and things get interesting in the dressing room. Shameless PWP. Exorcise plots on sight.


Dean had driven about a block when he finally found a parking space, sighing in relief as he spotted the small gap between two Fords, just big enough to fit the '67 Impala his father had given him on his last birthday. Easing gently into the space, being careful not to scratch his baby's paint on the suddenly much larger surrounding cars, he continuously flicked nervous glances towards the watch on his left wrist. The flyer he had received a week earlier, along with an endearing awkward smile and a murmured 'Wanna come?', had said the performance wouldn't be starting for another fifteen minutes, but Dean wanted to avoid being late at all costs. He had originally intended to be uncharacteristically early, however, his father had decided to jump him with the 'I accept you but will still shoot you strange looks and avoid any unnecessary verbal communication with you' speech, which had caused him to run a good ten minutes late getting out the door. Still, as Dean jogged down the streetlamp-lit road towards the high school entrance, he silently praised himself for actually being there only five minutes after the doors opened.

When he reached the entrance of the school's drama hall, however, a very unwelcome scene met him. The majority of the first rows of seats were already filled; crammed with supportive friends, eager mothers and snot-nosed younger siblings. His mind momentarily drifted to his younger brother, Sam, who was most likely sitting at home reading through his Latin essay for the millionth time, making more and more adjustments to the already flawless work. For a moment, Dean almost wished he had brought Sam along.

"Winchester," A snide, nasally voice pulled him from his musings, and he turned to see someone he had very much hoped would not be attending the performance that night.

"Didn't pit you for the theatrical type," drawled the dirty-blonde boy who was striding over to him, his jeans ripped and faded denim jacket draped pompously over his shoulders, "Do you even know what the performance is, or did you just turn up to flirt with all the girls?"

Alistair Caldwell; resident school asshole and the top name on Dean's 'People I would most like to feed through a wood chipper' list. He was smirking at Dean with an air of haughtiness, as if he thought the fact that he had money, and lots of it, made him better than Dean. Which, it may have, if he hadn't been such an uptight, self-righteous douchebag.

Dean shot him one of his most withering glares before answering, "It's Hamlet, asshat. You know, Shakespeare."

Alistair gasped in mock horror, "Now, now Dean-o," He chided, waving a hand regally in Dean's direction, "This is a house of art, one must watch their choice of language."

Dean snorted humorlessly in reply and turned away, leaving Alistair as he made his way towards the front rows of seats, glancing around for a free space. If he was going to sit through this, he may as well have a good view. Not to mention that a certain thespian's eyes would most likely light up like a thousand shooting stars upon seeing Dean sitting upfront. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought and continued scanning the seats before him. He thought he had spotted a seat at the far side of the third row when the lights in the hall began to dim and a voice rang out over the PA system, asking that everyone please take their seats and switch their phones to silent.

Dean, realizing the play was about to begin, quickly paced towards the nearest vacant spot, squeezing between the legs of disgruntled audience members and the seats in front of him, he had barely hit the chair when the curtain was lifted. Two actors stood in the center of the stage, in front of what appeared to be a large medieval castle made of plywood, one kicking off the play with his first lines in a pubescent voice that hitched and squeaked on every other syllable, making Dean cringe. After a few moments, the two boys on stage were joined by another pair, one of whom Dean recognized as Fergus Crowley, a boy two grades above him who was notorious for his ability to weasel his way out of any situation and trick middle schoolers out of their lunch money. He was fairly handsome, and had a slight British inclination to his deep voice as he spoke his first lines, which even Dean could tell were presented much better than his fellow actors.

Dean quickly grew tired of the back-to-front language of the actors and constant squeaking of the player he had identified as portraying Bernardo, and had almost lost all interest when the four actors suddenly vacated the stage the scene changed. Two stagehands clad in black scurried forwards to flip the set, changing it to that of the lavish interior of the castle, and a new group of actors took the stage, one of whom caught Dean's eye instantly and made a small smile spread across his face. A broad, dark boy, that Dean thought may have been called Uriel, began the scene with a lengthy speech, much of which Dean spent wishing that Lisa, as Queen Gertrude, would move just a fraction to the left so that he could see the actor he truly wanted to be watching. He had almost given up craning his neck to try to see around the heads in front of him when the dark-haired boy near the back of the group took a step to the side, his eyes slipping quickly through the audience until they found Deans and a small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. Castiel.

"A little more than kin, and less than kind." Castiel murmured, more to himself than anyone else, but Dean could almost feel the words reverberate in his chest as if he had been standing right beside him. He watched, captivated as Castiel spoke, his words flowing like lush, hypnotic notes from his lips, every one more melancholy and delicious than the last. He fit his character perfectly, his tousled, chocolate-coloured hair framing his pale face in a way that made him look almost ghostly, as if he was some sort of ethereal spirit clad in black. It didn't take Dean long to recognize why Castiel had been given the lead role; Dean knew he was good, but he never realized that he was this good. He made you believe what you were seeing, his slender hands reaching towards the ghost of his father with such fearful curiosity, his face a portrait of confusion and betrayal at the learning of his Uncle's treachery. He was, at least while on stage, Hamlet.

From that moment on, Dean watched with enchanted fascination, hanging on to his Hamlet's every word, pondering his internal musings and smirking with his plot to expose his Uncle. He did, however, grow slightly irritated by Crowley, as Horatio, who seemed to have quite a fondness for standing an inch too close to his Hamlet. Not to mention the dark-haired girl who acted as Ophelia, the woman who longed for her once beloved Hamlet. Still, Dean took quiet comfort in his Hamlet's urges for Ophelia to 'commit thyself to a nunnery' in the first scene of act three. He was somewhat startled when the curtain dropped after Ophelia's tragic death, not that Dean really minded that she would no longer be around to bat her eyelids at his Hamlet, and turned to the blonde woman beside him, "Is that it? The end?"

The woman arched an eyebrow and glared down her nose at him, eyeing his beaten leather jacket and jeans. "No, that is not 'the end'. It is the intermission." She explained coolly, before giving Dean another appraising look then excusing herself and moving to a seat in the next row. For a moment, Dean felt heat rise to his face at the way she had dismissed him, but forced it down as a sandy-haired man in his early twenties took the seat beside him and smiled.

"Don't mind Rachel," he intoned loudly, almost as if he wanted her to hear, "That stick's been up her ass for years. I've offered to remove it several times, but she just keeps saying no." He smirked down at Dean, readjusting his dark jacket as he did so, "Oh well, her loss."

Dean said nothing, but nodded, hoping that the intermission wouldn't run much longer. The man's grey, v-neck shirt was gaining quite a few flirtatious looks from the women in the hall, and all Dean wanted was to be able to go back to watching Castiel perform.

His prayers were answered swiftly, the curtain rising once more to reveal two medieval clowns, who yammered for quite a while before Castiel took the stage once more, instantaneously becoming Hamlet. Dean spent the rest of the play watching his Hamlet intently, trying to understand how one person could embody a character so fully and richly as Castiel did. At one point, while Dean was staring a hole into the side of his Hamlet's head, Castiel turned slightly, his eyes finding Deans for a split second and his cheeks flushing a faint pink before he quickly returned his gaze to the other actors. Dean couldn't help but grin at this brief display of Castiel; the shy, awkward Castiel that had tutored Dean in English at the beginning of the year, and who had quickly grown to be one of Dean's closest, and only, friends. Yes, that was the Castiel Dean liked the most.

All too soon, the play was drawing to a close, his Hamlet acting out his final scene of slaying Laertes, then falling, poisoned, to the floor, where Horatio quickly crouched beside him.

"Oh, I die, Horatio;" his Hamlet cried softly, drawing Dean even further into the performance. "The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy the election lights on Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, which have solicited." Dean watched, enthralled, as Castiel's eyes slipped slowly to meet his own, then, which the softness of a breath of evening wind, he exhaled, "The rest is silence." With that, he fell limp, the hand that had been outstretched to Horatio dropping to his side and his crystal blue eyes fluttering shut. Dean could almost feel the entire atmosphere be sucked out of the room and pinpointed on Castiel as he, as Hamlet, lay dead before the audience's eyes.

Dean had to hold back from giving a standing ovation then and there. He sat, squirming in his chair for the remaining moments of the play, his eyes glued to Castiel's surprisingly still form laid out on the stage. Finally, the play concluded, leaving Dean to shoot up from his seat so suddenly that it startled the elderly woman to his left, and start clapping so hard his hands stung. As the curtain rose once more for the cast to take their final bow, Dean applauded even harder, hoping that somehow Castiel would hear him over the deafening roar of the crowd's ovation. Surprisingly, Castiel's eyes sought Dean out among the ruckus of the audience, and, seeing Dean's obvious enthusiasm, he beamed, the light of his smile putting every other actor's wide grins to shame. Dean did feel a slight twitch of annoyance as Castiel reached out to take the hand of the dark-haired Ophelia beside him and raise their entwined fingers before the final bow. Formalities, Dean assured himself, they were just formalities.

Once the lights had brightened once more and people began rising from their seats, Dean slipped out of the row he had been sitting in and proceeded to a door near the side of the stage. He had noticed it during the intermission, and was hoping that it was the door that Castiel had told him about that lead into the backstage area, where he would be waiting for him. Dean paused as he reached the door, before opening it with as much subtlety as possible and slipping through into the bustling area that he assumed was the side stage. For a moment, he just looked around, taking in the chaos of stagehands and actors, chatting, clearing spaces and just generally reveling in a performance well done. Moving quickly, Dean slipped through the many small groups of people, trying not to bump anyone in his path as his eyes desperately searched for his Hamlet.

"Dean?" He turned at the sound of his name, beaming, but felt the excitement in his chest die down as he met a pair of very not blue eyes. "Sorry, mate, but you aren't allowed back here." Crowley smirked, eyeing Dean with a hint of maliciousness. "Cast and crew only, darling." He explained, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of the door. When Dean made no move to leave, Crowley's coal eyes hardened, and he took a step further into Dean's personal space, "Ergo, you can't be here. Now scoot, before I-" Dean never got to hear what Crowley was going to threaten him with, because suddenly he spotted a familiar head of dark, tousled hair a few feet away, and before he knew it, he was striding over to Castiel, grinning as he went.

"Hey, Hamlet." Dean muttered when he was standing directly behind Castiel, causing him to jump slightly, before whirling around and positively beaming at Dean.

"Dean! You came!" He grinned, flinging his arms around Dean's neck and hugging him tightly, before freezing suddenly and quickly backing away. "Sorry, I'm sorry." He stammered hurriedly, tugging at a stray lock of hair just behind his hair, the way he did whenever he was nervous, "No chick-flick moments, I forgot, I'm sorry." Dean grinned, then wrapped his arms around Castiel in a bone-crushing bear hug.

"Just this once, you can break the 'no chick-flick moments' rule." He said as he released a stunned Castiel, ruffling his hair affectionately, "But it's only because you did so good tonight, so don't get used to it."

Castiel blinked a few times before a slow smile tugged at his lips again, "Well. I did well tonight." He corrected gently, earning himself a characteristic eye roll from Dean, "I thought I taught you better than that."

"Yeah, yeah, Hamlet. I'll make sure to use proper grammar next time I compliment you." Dean scoffed as a stagehand almost ran into him with a large crate of extension cords. "Is there anywhere less crowded around here? I swear to God, the next black-clad idiot who bumps into me is going to have an eye to match his outfit." Castiel smiled at Dean's remark, shaking his head in a very 'I find you funny but shouldn't' kind of way, before turning towards a short hallway that Dean hadn't noticed before.

"There's a dressing room down here, if you want to go there?" he asked quietly, to which Dean nodded enthusiastically before following him towards a nondescript black door. Once inside the small room, cramped with racks of clothing and crates filled with props, Dean shut the door behind them and turned, smirking, to Castiel.

"So, Ophelia was pretty hot." Dean began, though, it sounded more like a question than a statement. Luckily, Castiel had the right answer.

"Meg?" he replied, a look on his face as if he had eaten something sour, "She is such a little primadonna! I just... ugh. I can barely stand being in the same room as her." Castiel ranted, his hands flapping around in the air as he spoke. "I don't even know how she got the role of Ophelia. Well, actually, I do, but seducing our drama coordinator isn't exactly-"

"You never told me you were such a good actor." Dean cut in, confidence boosted, and leaned against the closed door, watching gleefully as a pale pink flush filled Castiel's porcelain cheeks.

"I'm... I'm not _that_ good. I mean, Fergus was definitely more in-character than I was..." He was cut off by Dean's snort.

"Fergus _Crowley_? That pompous asswipe wouldn't know Horwhatshisface-"

"Horatio."

"Him. Yeah, Crowley wouldn't know that guy if he impaled him on his rapier or something." Castiel chuckled at that, feeling a burst of pride at the fact that Dean had been listening well enough to pick up on the terminology. "Besides, you look better in tights." Dean added, his eyes running the length of Castiel's lean, black-clad legs, and Castiel's face flushed scarlet once more.

"You... you really think I did well? As Hamlet?" Castiel inquired tentatively, trying to act as if Dean's comment hadn't sent warmth shooting southward as well as to his cheeks. Dean grinned.

"Hell yeah! Honest to God, I thought you were actually dead after the whole killing Ophelia's brother thing." Castiel's brow furrowed at this, and he turned ever so slightly away from Dean.

"So, you're saying my best performance was when I lay on the stage and did absolutely nothing but try to keep my breathing as unnoticeable as possible?" He asked, subtle hints of hurt staining the edge of his voice.

"No." Dean intoned, pushing off from the door and prowling slowly towards where Castiel stood almost anxiously a few feet away from him.

"But you just said-"

"Cas, you were perfect." Dean said, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder and turn him so that they were facing each other fully. "Absolutely, inarguably perfect."

"But-"

"Perfect, Cas." Castiel's shocking blue eyes studied Dean for a moment, searching for anything that may suggest he was lying and coming up empty-handed.

"Oh." Was all he managed to say, his warm breath tickling Dean's skin, and suddenly he was hyperaware of just how close Dean was. How dark his earthy green eyes were, glimmering with just the right amount of danger to make small wings flutter somewhere in Castiel's navel. How warm his hand was on Castiel's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. Castiel liked that about Dean; the way his touch perfectly mimicked his temperament. When he was happy, his hands would be light and energetic, yet they would hang limp at his sides whenever his troubles got to him. However, of all of Dean's trademark grips, the one he was now applying was Castiel's favourite. It was the one where his hand slipped slowly down Castiel's arm and then inwards, stopping when it found his hip and squeezing gently in a way that sent every nerve below Castiel's waistband into a frenzy.

Castiel hadn't noticed that Dean had been gradually guiding him backwards until his spine nudged lightly against the small patch of brick wall that wasn't covered by clothes racks.

"Dean?" Castiel's lips mesmerized him as they moved around the word. It was almost strange that one little word, one little syllable, could set Dean aflame so profoundly. Just that one, quiet word in Castiel's husky voice and suddenly everything was heat and the sound of Castiel's anticipating breaths, and the feel of his skin as Dean slipped his thumb under his black shirt to rub small circles on his hips. One tiny, insignificant, perfect little word and all Dean wanted was to make Castiel say it again, and again, and again. Over and over, like an unwritten sonnet being laid down, his skin the parchment and Castiel's lips the ink.

"Yeah, Cas?" he breathed, lifting the hand that wasn't circling the skin of Castiel's hip and placing it against the wall beside his head, effectively boxing him in. For a long moment, Castiel did nothing but look up at Dean from under long, dark lashes. Dean enjoyed it; the power he felt, standing there with Castiel against a wall and knowing that he held the ace. That is, until Castiel pushed up onto his toes, leaned in, and pressed a small, chaste kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth.

"That."

Then suddenly Castiel was pressed flat against the wall, Deans mouth on his, caressing and nipping and sucking and pushing. It was aggressive, but still gentle, every bite of a lip soothed with the brush of a tongue, every hard press of mouths equaled by a tender touch of fingertips. The hand that Dean had been using to brace against the wall quickly found it's way to Castiel's lower back, urging his hips forwards as his slender fingers carded through Dean's short hair. Dean was somewhat surprised when he felt Castiel's tongue nudge eagerly at his lips, not used to him making the first moves, but parted his lips willingly, almost sighing as Castiel's tongue timidly mapped out the inside of his mouth.

Castiel could feel Dean's firm chest against his own, heartbeat reverberating through his ribs and into his own body like a bass drum. He wasn't used to this spontaneity, this sudden _yearning_ for Dean that he seemed to reciprocate enthusiastically. It wasn't that Castiel didn't usually want Dean like this; pressed flush against him and kissing him like there was no tomorrow, no, it was simply that Dean didn't usually let him have it so _willingly_. Though he knew that Dean truly cared about him, he also understood that Dean was having some difficulties in transitioning from soft, curved girls to the scrawny body that was now urging itself against him. It both excited Castiel and made him nervous, Dean's sudden willingness to give in to their desires in a dressing room with a good forty people outside, who could easily barge in at any minute and-

_Oh._

_Oh, oh, oh._

Castiel had been thinking, Dean could feel it in their kiss, and all he had wanted was for him to stop. Stop thinking, stop worrying, and just _give in. _So, naturally, Dean had done the first thing that had come to mind, which was to slip a leg between Castiel's and press upwards, his upper thigh putting delicious pressure on the bulge forming in Castiel's tight pants.

The noise he made should have been illegal.

It was a strangled mewl, rising softly in Castiel's chest before being cut off by a sharp hitching of breath when Dean moved his leg, creating a light friction that was almost unbearable. Seeing the effect he was having on Castiel, Dean started rocking his thigh in an insanely slow rhythm, making Castiel whimper and tip his head back against the wall, granting Dean full access to the supple skin of his throat. Taking the opportunity gratefully, Dean attacked the flesh with his lips, sucking a trail of near translucent hickeys down Castiel's jugular as he moaned softly beneath him. Licking slowly back up the slowly reddening skin of Castiel's neck, he quickly found the spot beneath his earlobe and bit down gently, causing Cas to moan so deeply that Dean could feel it echo in his own throat.

"D-Dean..." Castiel stammered, focusing on forming coherent words through the overwhelming pleasure that was coursing outwards through his body from every place that Dean's skin touched. When Dean did nothing but drag his tongue slowly down Castiel's jugular once more, thigh still pressing teasingly into his growing hardness, Castiel tugged gently at Dean's hair, trying again to get his attention. It seemed to work, because Dean eventually looked up, his green eyes smoldering.

"Mmmm?" he hummed softly, leaning in to press his lips softly to Castiel's before letting him speak.

"Dean... I need..." He shuddered when the hand that had been resting on his hip slipped under his shirt, caressing his stomach so sensually that he couldn't help but jut his hips forwards, pressing urgently into Dean's thigh.

"I... I need..." He panted as Dean's hand then traveled southwards, his thumb slipping below the waistband of both his pants and underwear, rubbing gently at the fine hairs there.

"You need what, Cas?"

"_You."_

Dean smirked, removing his hand from Castiel's pelvis and moving it to the side of his neck, massaging gently when Castiel whimpered at the unwanted relocation of the touch.

"Dean, please..." Castiel begged, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his hips forward, trying to regain some of that delicious friction.

"What part of me do you want?" Dean inquired quietly, smirking when Castiel's eyes opened and he watched him curiously, most likely wondering if he was serious.

"Your... your mouth." He said it almost like a question, like he was asking for Dean's permission to want such a thing. Dean grinned even wider and then pressed a hot, dominating kiss to Castiel's mouth, biting and tugging at his lower lip as he did so. He liked kissing him in that way, knowing it would leave his lips swollen and pink, like sweet, sun kissed fruit, over ripened in the summers heat.

"Like this?" Dean murmured, pulling back just enough for his breath to fan Castiel's still tingling lips. "Or maybe..." He let his mouth run smoothly along Castiel's jaw, next pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

"Dean, lower."

Dean paused, his lips hovering over Castiel's jugular, almost able to hear the blood thundering beneath that thin stretch of skin. Had Castiel just given him instructions? He had never done that before. Sure, he had murmured quiet requests when they kissed in the past, and he had repeatedly told him to stay still the first time his lips had traveled southwards on Dean's skin, but this... this was an order. And by God, did Dean like it. This new, softy demanding Castiel was incredible to behold, his confidence blossoming as pleasure filled his body, and Dean simply couldn't help himself.

"Whatever you say, Hamlet." He smiled, then he was kneeling, hands pushing Castiel's shirt up his chest so that Dean could run a smooth, wet line along his stomach with his tongue. He shuddered, the muscles in his abdomen tensing and his stomach quivering as Dean's tongue slipped along his navel, pausing briefly to delve into his belly button. Castiel breathing was quicker now, coming out in soft pants as Deans thumbs found his nipples, circling the erected nubs while keeping his shirt pushed up to his armpits. Dean let his mouth wander down the trail of fine hair that ran from Castiel's navel to his waistband, planting small kissed along the pebbled skin until-

"Dean... _lower_." Castiel panted out, one of his delicate hands finding Deans shoulder and applying pressure, actually trying to push Dean down so that his lips may graze the aching hardness in his pants. Dean had to stifle a laugh, amazed and enticed by Castiel's new demanding nature. Maybe it was because this would be his first time having Dean's mouth so low on his anatomy, or perhaps it was because they were in a dressing room in their school drama hall, but either way, Castiel had grown bossy, and Dean wasn't complaining.

Grinning, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the bulge straining against Castiel's pants, and the strangled groan that slipped from between Castiel's lips made Dean shudder with arousal. Fortunately, Dean was much more experienced than Castiel in the department of sexual interaction, so he was able to keep relatively cool and focus on the trembling, flushed task at hand. He ran his hands lethargically down Castiel's side, before hooking his index fingers into Castiel's waistband and quickly slipping his pants and underwear halfway down his thighs and smirking. If that wasn't the prettiest erection in the world, then Dean didn't know what was.

Castiel sighed, finally free of the painful constrains of his pants. His entire body was hot, and tingling, Dean's fingers on his hips the only pinpricks of fresh chill against his skin. This was his first time having someone kneeling at his feet, ready to please him, and the anticipation was threatening to blow his heart out of his chest. He chanced a fleeting look downwards and instantly regretted it, the way Deans eyes examined him hungrily only making the ache in his crotch worse, his hardness twitching involuntarily at the thought of his warm, wet mouth. Dean's hands tightened, his fingertips pressing small indentations into Castiel's flesh as he held him in place.

"Cas. Cas, look at me." Taking a deep breath and choking down the urge to moan at the possessiveness in Dean's voice, Castiel tilted his head downwards and met Dean's steady gaze. Dean smirked in an oddly reassuring way, then leaned forwards and ran the tip of his tongue along the vein running down the underside of Castiel's length.

A chocked moan ripped it's way from Castiel's lungs, and Dean grinned at the sound. It was all Castiel could do not to grab Dean's hair and force his mouth onto his flesh, the need for release, and for Dean to be the one to give it to him, near overwhelming. Fortunately, it was only seconds before Dean's strong fingers were wrapped loosely around his base, and the flat of his tongue was running firmly over his head, gathering the single, glistening bead of pre-cum that had formed there. Dean smirked. Leaning forwards once more, he began a slow line of kisses along the underside of Castiel's length, parting his lips every now and the to let his tongue flick out and tease at the hot, salty skin. Castiel whimpered suddenly, _he_ _fucking whimpered, _and Dean's barely formed plan to tease the orgasm out of him went flying out of the metaphorical window

"Dean..." Was all Castiel could manage, his voice hitched and tight as his fingertips dug into the muscle of Dean's shoulder.

"I know, Cas. I know." He murmured, and for a moment Dean felt that a part of him should be telling him that this was wrong; that he shouldn't be on his knees, in a dressing room, about to give another guy his first blowjob, but it wasn't. There were no macho or ego conflicting actions with emotion in his mind, no ringing voice telling him that it should be a woman's hips his fingers were grasping to tenderly. No, there was nothing but pure, unadulterated need to give Castiel what he wanted.

So he did.

Castiel moaned, low and long, as Dean's lips found his head, pressing a gentle kiss there before taking Castiel slowly into his mouth. Suddenly, everything was alight. Castiel's body burned with heat, as if the overwhelming pleasure he felt was actually molten lava, coursing through his veins and thundering in his ears. It was slowly coiling in the pit of his stomach, curling into a tight spiral that wouldn't hold long. He could feel nothing but Dean; his tongue circling his head, his mouth warm and wet as one hand pumped fluidly at the part of Castiel that wasn't between his lips. Castiel's hands instinctively found the nape of Dean's neck and ran upwards, fingers carding though his short hair as he encouraged him with gentle tugs and pulls.

"D-Dean... I..." Castiel gasped, voice ragged and chest heaving as his eyes clamped shut, trying his hardest to postpone the overwhelming pleasure that was building inside him from taking him completely. Dean simply hummed in response, the gentle vibrations like electric shocks to every one of Castiel's nerve endings, tearing another wanton cry from his lips. Dean's hand tightened almost painfully, hold his pelvis in place as his hips bucked reflexively, almost making Dean gag. He was close, he could feel it; like a serpent that was coiled at his waist, rising up and threatening to strike at any minute. A quiet voice in the back of his head reminded him that this was not a good thing; that he was standing in a dressing room, Dean at his feet, and he was about to have his first orgasm at the hands of another person.

Those thoughts were washed away instantly when Dean began humming Metallica.

Dean didn't know how he knew to do it, he just did. He had been listening to 'Enter Sandman' on his way to the performance, so, remembering how Castiel had reacted the first time, he began humming the oh-so-familiar tune. That was all it took. All it took for Castiel to whisper-moan-cry-_whimper_ his name, hips jerking erratically, and suddenly there was warmth in the back of Dean's mouth. Dean was surprised to see that Castiel had opened his eyes, and, making measured eye contact, he swallowed deliberately.

Everything was on fire, and Castiel had to clutch desperately at the rack of clothes to his left, still bracing himself on Dean's shoulder with his right hand, to keep upright. The coil that had been twisting at the pit of his stomach had sprung, ricocheting off every nerve in Castiel's body and sending wave after wave of heat and pleasure coursing through his trembling body. Sure, he had pleasured himself once or twice before with Dean in mind, but this... it was unbelievable. The ecstasy, the electricity, the fact that it was real and not just a figment of his imagination; that was what really made it so perfectly incredible.

Dean pulled away slowly, running his tongue gingerly along Castiel's hypersensitive flesh as he went, repeating the action once, twice, three times, before laying a gentle kiss on the now softening head and standing up. He reached down and lightly replaced Castiel's clothing, pulling his pants and underwear back up and smoothing them gently, paying careful attention to keeping his touch as light as possible. When he had finished righting Castiel's clothing, he stood for a moment, simply looking. Castiel's eyes were shut, dark eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly as he inhaled, deep and sharp, slowly coming down from his high. Smiling affectionately, Dean leaned in an kissed each of Castiel's rosy cheeks, before laying a tender kiss to his lips, pink and swollen from being bitten.

Castiel slowly leaned into the kiss, taking comfort in the way Dean's arms encircled him protectively and held him close.

"So," Dean began, pulling out of the kiss and resting his forehead against Castiel's, "How was that, Hamlet? Good enough performance for a thespian like you?"

Castiel chuckled softly despite himself, smiling blissfully as he leaned forwards to bump their noses together. "It was perfect." He breathed, cheeks still flushed and lips still tingling. "Absolutely, inarguably perfect." And Dean smiled.


End file.
